


Blossoms

by yeaka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Voronwë and Tuor have a lovely evening, even with Maeglin about





	Blossoms

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Ruined Date” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158937866370/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Everything about the day has been a joy beyond expression, from the moment he met Tuor in the gardens to the time they spent under the brilliant sun, walking with their fingers entwined and laughing and singing. Tuor’s voice is as rich and strong as the first time Voronwë ever heard it, and it fills him with new _want_ on every occasion. They wandered the streets together, sat by the fountain together, and now the evening is upon them and Tuor takes him to a house of dining. Voronwë would go anywhere on Tuor’s arm, even out of the city again, fair though it is, perhaps clear across the sea. Indeed, Voronwë’s fondest fantasies are of spiriting Tuor away, finding the lost shores of Valinor together and living out all the years to come.

But tonight will have to do, one date amongst a hundred busier days—Tuor is as great now as he’s ever been, and responsibilities are always heavy on his shoulders. Yet he smiles so lightly at the hostess that greets them. They’re taken back amidst the candle-lit halls and given a small alcove in the corner, beautifully arrayed in potted plants and flickering candles. The setting is private, intimate, and their round table is small enough that Voronwë can feel Tuor’s knees brushing his beneath it. Of course, Tuor’s always been absurdly tall, his legs as long as his hair is golden. When he smiles, Voronwë’s heart dances. He eyes Tuor for a long moment, ruggedly handsome and royally noble all at once. Tuor is all things, and Voronwë is grateful for every minute with him.

Tuor is the one that first breathes, “You are beautiful tonight.” And Voronwë smiles so wide that his cheeks grow sore from it. Tuor reaches out to play with the dark braid twisted down Voronwë’s shoulder, embroidered with thin silver threads and little studs of diamonds—splendors that he only ever dons for these special dates. Most of them have been gifts from Tuor himself, jewels that Voronwë wears with pride for the meaning of them. When Tuor places his hands on the table, Voronwë can’t help reaching for them.

Tuor traps his more slender fingers and gives them a subtle squeeze. Tuor’s body is so _warm_ , and Voronwë nearly trembles before it. He returns, “You are gorgeous too, my lord, and you cannot know how much this time together pleases me.” 

Tuor laughs, like he often does when Voronwë addresses him by title, though he’s earned it in spades and Voronwë would never deny him that honour. There are none in all of Gondolin, perhaps save King Turgon himself, more deserving of their splendor. Voronwë’s still clutching to his hands when the hostess returns, bringing two glasses of wine and announcing, “Your salads will arrive shortly.”

Tuor answers, “Thank you,” without ever looking away from Voronwë’s face. 

When the hostess has bowed and made her leave, Voronwë murmurs, “She was eyeing you.”

“She was not,” Tuor counters, a grin at his lips.

Voronwë teases on, “Everyone wants you.” And though he says it with an air of jest, he knows it’s true.

Tuor counters, “Tonight, only you shall have me.” He lifts one of Voronwë’s hands to kiss, making Voronwë chime with quiet laughter.

As soon as Tuor’s released Voronwë’s hand, he’s leaning forward, and Voronwë’s drawn towards it, no more able to resist Tuor’s call than he could that of the Valar themselves. They come together squarely in the middle, Tuor’s lips brushing his and his mouth opening on instinct, eager for Tuor to _fill him_ ; he tilts to allow Tuor entrance. Tuor takes it, pressing back, and for a moment, Voronwë thinks they’ll forget the oncoming meal entirely and simply make love across the floor.

They aren’t given a chance, because someone clears their throat, and Voronwë withdraws. He looks aside to where Lord Maeglin stands, smirking wide with eyes full of mischief. Voronwë’s never particularly liked him, partially for Tuor’s aversion, and partially for Maeglin’s aversion to Tuor. Maeglin purrs in a silken drawl, “Well, well, I am sorry about this. I promise, I did not intend to ruin your date... after all, when I invited the lovely Idril to dine with me, how was I to know that, to our horror, we would only find the great Tuor... with another man.”

Idril steps forward at Maeglin’s side, and Voronwë’s eyes fall to her, to her glory, her beauty, her white robes and golden hair and the softness of her face. Voronwë nods his greeting to her, then tells Maeglin in a bought of simple confusion, “You have not ruined our date.”

Maeglin utterly ignores him, busy smirking solely at Tuor, but before Tuor can concur with Voronwë, Idril breaks into a smile and coos, “Oh, you two really are very cute together.”

Instantly, Maeglin’s head snaps to the side. His eyes widen around the edges, boring into her. He grunts a faint, “What?”

To Voronwë, Idril sighs, “I do apologize. You have been good not to interrupt my nights with my husband, and I would afford you the same courtesy, only that it seems chance had other plans. Maeglin insisted on brining me here tonight, and I did want to stretch my legs...”

“It is fine,” Voronwë assures her, bowing again to acknowledge her generosity. “I thank you again for sharing him at all.”

Idril smiles at him, then turns and bends to press a parting kiss to Tuor’s cheek. She orders, “Be good for him.”

Tuor replies, “I am always good; and I must be, to keep such a wondrous wife.”

With a delighted laugh, Idril nods, and then she reaches for Maeglin’s arm and tugs him pointedly away, though he goes stiffly, still gaping from Tuor to Idril, only pausing to glare daggers at Voronwë. Voronwë ignores it; there’s very little that can ruin a date with Tuor.

When both Maeglin and Idril have disappeared from sight, Voronwë dares to murmur, “How strange.”

“I am sure the king insisted she afford Maeglin some kindness,” Tuor muses, then finishes, “But no matter. She will hold her own. You are correct that it did not ruin us, for little could when I am out with such desirable company. Now, where were we?”

Voronwë, genuinely charmed, leans forward again. Tuor meets him there, and their joy resumes.


End file.
